


Beautiful Souls

by Wandering_Aspen



Category: Baldur's Gate, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Introspection, M/M, Slow Romance, grumpy vampire is grumpy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27536170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wandering_Aspen/pseuds/Wandering_Aspen
Summary: When Astarion looks at you, he is reminded of all those long nights in Baldur's Gate that too often ended in death.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 167





	Beautiful Souls

A beautiful soul, that’s what you are. 

Astarion thinks this as he walks, watching the shadows of branches slide across your armor like languid snakes. You play the hero well, perhaps too well. It’s irritating, really, how kindness radiates from you. He still remembers the sun’s cruel bite and thinks of you. You are enough to make a monster like him burn. 

Hero. Confidante. The latter had been unexpected, unwelcome at first. He needed no one’s pity. Still, you persisted. Still, you tried to talk to him about the tadpole, about Cazador, and he eventually broke. You were genuine in a way no one in his life had ever been. Sympathy from you wasn’t pity, wasn’t patronizing. You tried to comfort _him_ of all people— Astarion, a vampire spawn and corrupt magistrate. Most would never have bothered, but you saw the man beneath the monster. Like so many things, it drove him to anger. 

He had seen hundreds of people like you before in Baldur’s Gate. Hundreds of people far too trusting and eager to help a stranger. You remind him of them, those other beautiful, stupid souls. You will die like them too.

He remembers the dimly lit streets and noisy taverns overflowing with bodies. They were cramped, ablaze with life and the steady song of hurried hearts. It had been a dizzying scene but easy to vanish in, to become another face half-seen through drunken eyes. He remembers these people vividly, the sweet ones. He remembers plying them with drink and leading them laughing to Cazador’s mansion. He remembers the sickly burst of congealed rat’s blood in his mouth as he watched the beautiful ones be devoured, unable to move from his place on the floor. Worst of all, he remembered the wicked gleam in Cazador’s eyes as he fed, satisfied that Astarion was his. That gleam only sharpened when Astarion defied his invitations and the other slaves peeled the skin from his back until he screamed himself into unconsciousness. 

But the taste of you, your blood, your skin, still lingers in his fractured memories, calling him back from the abyss. He steps away from it onto the bitter edge.

Sometimes Astarion wonders if you’re as rotten deep down as he is. It would be a relief. People like him, like Cazador, will feed on you, crush you until you’re nothing. It’s better to harden yourself. It’s better to survive. He sees it, sometimes, when you’re pushed too hard in a fight. This feral thing lurking behind your eyes, ready to lash out. Astarion imagines stoking that fire. That’s who they will need to live, not the soft, loving one standing before him.

Your constant empathy is new to him, both nauseating and sweet. You’re too beautiful for this hungry world. In another time he might have chanced upon you in some tavern or alleyway, enjoying the night in Baldur’s Gate. He pictures your face, open and trusting as the others had been. He sees your neck twisted in Cazador’s clawed hands. His victim’s eyes were always kind, even in death. How Astarion loathed it. He wouldn’t have felt guilty then about throwing you to Cazador. The memory of being flayed alive had been louder than anything else. It had been louder, even, than himself.

Now? Now he would drown himself in guilt, let the quick flowing water boil him alive. He likes traveling with you, fighting with you. He likes following you to bed at night and watching the stars streak overhead as you look on. He would rather be flayed for another 200 years than give you up to anyone. The thought would warm his cheeks if he had any warmth to spare. 

Astarion trudges along, listening to you chat with Wyll and Gale about something. He is only half listening. His thoughts turn again to your smile. It was lovely and traitorous—the kind that would get you hunted down by a vampire. 

Suddenly you turn and look at him, words already on your lips. 

Astarion looks away quickly, flustered. “You’re staring at me again,” he says, trying to empty his mind of you.

You look at him for a moment, then two, letting the others trickle past. You see yourself tangled in his thoughts, but it's only a flash. The curtain crashes against the stage and the show is gone. Astarion glares as you chuckle softly.

"What?" He snaps.

You walk over and quickly kiss his cheek. The coldness is soothing after the heat of the journey, of baking in armor under the sun. "Nothing," you say. 

He watches you leave and join the others. Yes, a beautiful soul indeed. Gods help him.


End file.
